Compost

poetry is dead, a corpse in the field
it is fertilizing, in the process of
becoming ground for the new

where poetry’s eyes once were
there is a stir – a broodling of
eggs and small moons to hatch
into i know not what
it is a tongue-biting kind of mystery
a virile, pregnant mystery

what a parent poetry will be
with an orphanage in its ribcage
where words are hearts bloomed
we can only hope these strange children
remember where they came from